Seeker lowered her gaze, mouth hardening. The monochrome paint that once covered her features was long absent now, and he found he missed its facility for masking her emotions. Now he saw her anger, and her pain, all too clearly.

  “Don’t imagine I don’t hear your doubt, Pilgrim,” she told him. “You believe her lost, I know.”

  “We have travelled so far together, seen so much. In the space of months, we have uncovered mysteries and witnessed wonders I never saw in centuries of wandering this earth. I will not believe Ekiri is lost until the second we lose her, and I will strive with all I have to ensure that doesn’t happen. In our company, we boast perhaps the most formidable collection of souls known to the Five Seas. If she can be saved, I doubt there are others more suited to the task.”

  “I wish it were simply a matter of trust.” Seeker raised her face to the sky and he saw the tears she blinked away. “When first I lost Ekiri every night was a trial of dreams in which I chased her through endless deserts, always hearing her cries but never getting close enough to even glimpse her face. Even though they tormented me, drove me to the cusp of madness in truth, I cherished those dreams, Pilgrim, for I sensed that they bound us through the hidden channels of the world. Now…” She trailed off, drawing a deep breath. “Now those dreams have gone and I fear the cause. If she is not in my dreams, it means she has been fully claimed by the demon she carries, lost to me forever.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “No.” She lowered her face, meeting his gaze, eyes still leaking moisture across her cheeks. “But I feel it. And I fear, Pilgrim, I fear the task that shall await me when we find her.”

  “It will never come to that.”

  She shook her head. “A promise you can’t make.”

  “But I’ll make it, nonetheless.” He reached for her hand, grasping it tight. “Whatever it takes, whatever the cost. It will not come to that.”

  She returned his grip, just for a second, then released it. Turning away, she scanned the sea for a time until Guyime saw her stiffen into the predatory hunch he knew all too well.

  “What is it?” he asked, his own eyes revealing only a blank stretch of ocean.

  “What it always is,” she replied with a note of weary resignation, leaping nimbly to her feet. “Another obstacle in our way. For why would this endeavour be any different to all the others?” Standing, she reached up to thump a hand to the underside of the crow’s nest. “Wake up! Look to the north and sound your horn! We have visitors!”

  Fortunately, Shavalla opted to trust Seeker’s eyes rather than those of her lookout who failed to spot the sail cresting the northern horizon for a full quarter spill of the hourglass after the beast charmer’s warning. By then, the captain had summoned all hands to haul yet more canvas aloft whilst commanding various lines tightened and others loosened as she practised the mysterious art of the expert sailor. Soon the Wandering Serpent was cutting through the waves with a swiftness that made her prior efforts resemble a sedate walk.

  Apparently satisfied with the set of her sails, Shavalla then strode to the stern to train her glass on the newcomer. Thanks to the Serpent’s superior speed, the ship was already well to their rear, Guyime noting the gouts of white water as it laboured to change course and maintain pursuit.

  “She’s one of the Black Reaver’s, all right,” the captain said, handing Guyime her spyglass. “See the flag?”

  Raising the glass to his eye, Guyime eased the eyepiece back and forth until the upper rigging of the wallowing vessel came into focus. The flag trailed from her mainmast like a long, swirling bloodstain, dark red with a black motif of an eye in its centre. The ship itself was a substantial, wide-beamed warship with a sturdy, protruding prow designed for ramming.

  “His flagship?” he asked, handing the glass back to Shavalla.

  “No.” She gave a rueful chuckle, eyes narrowing in appraisal of the pirate vessel. “His flagship is the Shadow Claw and she’s a good deal bigger and faster than that fat-arsed tub. Judging by the state of their sails, they’ll be far in our wake by nightfall.”

  Her satisfied grin turned to frowning annoyance when the lookout in the crow’s nest let loose another series of blasts with his horn. “Clever bastards,” Shavalla muttered, Guyime following her across the busy deck to the starboard rail. Short of the horizon, a second ship plowed a steady course directly into their path, hull angled as she knifed through the sea, her sails full. She was smaller than the vessel to their rear, but plainly a good deal faster, the red flag streaming back from her mast in a near straight line.

  “You and yours best arm yourselves, old mate,” Shavalla advised Guyime. “It’s fighting time.”

  The opposing ship began assailing the Wandering Serpent with fireballs as soon as she hove within range. Mangonels along her rails cast a quartet of flaming projectiles in a high arc, each one leaving an ugly black trail across the sky. They plummeted into the sea a dozen yards short of the Serpent, birthing steaming water spouts and doing no damage. Instead of responding, Shavalla barked an order to her own mangonel crews to wait.

  “No loosing until I can see their faces!” she called out before turning to the stocky sailor who had charge of the helm. “Five points to starboard to spoil their aim, if you please!”

  Guyime gathered the others whilst the Serpent heaved in response to the angling of her rudder. The manoeuvre succeeded in frustrating the next volley of fireballs, although one delivered a glancing blow to the prow, leaving a lick of flame behind to be quickly extinguished by bucket-wielding crewmen.

  “My lord?” Lexius asked, half-drawing the Kraken’s Tooth and casting a meaningful glance at the swift vessel now heaving directly into the Serpent’s path. “One strike should suffice.”

  “Not yet,” Guyime told him. “I’d rather keep our captain ignorant of our abilities a while longer. Besides,” he jerked his head at the warship still labouring far off the Serpent’s stern, “I think your bolts would be best saved for them, should it prove necessary. Master druid,” he turned to Lorweth, “any assistance you can provide in slowing it down would be welcome.”

  The wind weaver squinted at the pursuing vessel in critical appraisal. “She’ll need to be a good deal closer, your worship. But I think I can keep her off us.”

  “Do so. If it looks as if they’ll manage to board us, Master Lexius will do what is required. Ultria,” he inclined his head at Orsena, “if you could linger here and see to their protection. Sir Anselm and I will deal with our most pressing issue.”

  “Leaving me behind?” Orsena enquired. Her tone held a note of humour but also reproach. “Do you doubt my sword skills, your highness?”

  “Never, my lady. But I feel your particular brand of magic would attract too much notice. Best save it for more dire circumstance.”

  There was no argument from Anselm, the young knight having already drawn his longsword. The Necromancer’s Glaive, however, remained firmly in its scabbard. “As you will it, sire,” he said with a bow. Although he had avowed a preference for addressing Guyime as ‘captain’, he did so with less frequency throughout the journey from the northlands. Instead, he increasingly employed the honorific used by Sir Lorent and the other members of the Ravager’s twelve most trusted disciples. It was also apparent to Guyime that Anselm didn’t realise he was doing so.

  On the mid deck, Corva was busy organising a fighting party whilst Shavalla sent archers to scale the rigging. Guyime glanced up to check Seeker remained in place below the crow’s nest. Raising a hand to gain her attention, he pointed to the ship now looming beyond the Serpent’s bows. Her sails were trimmed and she bobbed in the swell, a dense cluster of armed men and women thronging her port rail. Smoke rose from blackened sections of her hull where Shavalla’s mangonel crews had scored hits, yet none appeared to have inflicted vital damage. Arrows thrummed the air between both ships, one nearby sailor falling to the deck with a shaft embedded in his thigh and a stream of curses flowing from his lips.

  Returning his gaze to Seeker, Guyime saw her calmly set an arrow to her bow, aim, draw and loose. Tracking the short arc of her shaft, he saw it claim an archer in the pirate vessel’s rigging. Another two arrows followed in quick succession, each one sending a dark figure tumbling amidst the billowing sails.

  “I think it would be best to conclude this business quickly,” he told Anselm, leading him towards the prow.

  “I heartily agree, sire,” the knight replied. They crouched side-by-side in the shade of the figurehead whilst the enemy ship drew ever closer.

  “Stand ready, you wonderful bastards!” Shavalla called out, drawing her cutlass as the fighting party drew up behind her, halberds and axes in every hand. She favoured Guyime with a wink as they waited for the Serpent to collide with the pirate’s hull. “Glad to see you with us, old mate. I’d rather not waste deck space on a craven.”

  Beneath the humour and apparent keenness for battle, Guyime detected a careful judgement in her expression. Wants to see what you’re capable of, Lakorath said. This one’s a mite too inquisitive for my liking, my liege.

  The swish and thud of thrown grappling hooks sounded across the Serpent’s bows, accompanied by a chorus of hungry war cries from the pirates. A heartbeat later, the deck shuddered as the two ships collided, several sailors in the fighting party losing their footing only to be harangued back into ranks by Shavalla’s lacerating tongue.

  “Up, you wet-trousered bilge scum! Up and stand ready!”

  The Serpent rebounded from the other vessel and a gout of sea water splashed the foredeck before the grappling ropes drew taut, the pirates heaving to draw them close enough for a boarding.

  “I’m minded not to allow them the honour of the first strike,” Guyime informed Anselm, reaching over his shoulder to draw the Nameless Blade. “Are you?”

  “Certainly not, sire.”

  Guyime found the young knight’s grin chilling in its resemblance to the long-dead man whose shade now inhabited the sword on his back. The shock of recognition was enough to keep Guyime momentarily rooted on the spot, allowing Anselm the opportunity to surge upright and launch himself over the prow. A desire to always be at the fore of every charge was another echo of Lorent’s character.

  Grunting in chagrin, Guyime rose and leapt onto the crest of the figurehead before hurling himself onto the pirate’s deck. The Nameless Blade pulsed a short but painfully bright glow an instant before his boots touched the planking, blinding those within sword reach. He scythed them down with two broad strokes as they staggered, their yells of alarm transformed into screams as limbs tumbled in a red rain.

  Anselm was a dozen paces off to his right, fighting furiously amidst an encircling knot of pirates. Several had already fallen to the knight’s longsword, but the others came at him with undaunted ferocity, cutlasses slashing. Starting forward, Guyime’s path was immediately barred by a cluster of enemies. Like those assailing Anselm, they exhibited no trepidation, despite the slaughter just wreaked upon their crew mates.

  Guyime had plentiful experience with pirates and the lurid, often garish manner in which they garbed themselves and tattooed their flesh. This mob was set apart by their apparent enthusiasm for self-mutilation. Every face featured numerous piercings, some deep enough to skewer bone as well as flesh. The bared muscles of their arms were rich in scars too elaborate to be solely the result of combat. Most significant of all were the eye-shaped sigils on their foreheads, branded into the flesh rather than tattooed. This, and the way they growled and snarled at him with a uniform pitch of bloodlust, forced Guyime to conclude these people had surrendered themselves to animalistic savagery.

  Not so much surrendered as enmeshed, Lakorath commented as Guyime cut down the first pirate to lunge for him. I sense magic here.

  “How so?” Guyime grunted, ducking under a slashing spear and laying open the belly of its owner.

  It takes a powerful spell to enchant so many. That branding on their heads is the totem that binds them, instills an unwavering loyalty to whoever put it there.

  With pirates closing in on all sides, Guyime gripped the Nameless Blade with both hands and spun. Flesh and steel parted as he described a bloody pirouette. Coming to a halt at the port rail, Guyime surveyed the trail of slain or maimed foes littering the deck. He noted that those not yet dead screamed and flailed like any other stricken enemy, the magically induced devotion to their pirate king seemingly overcome by mortal agony.

  As is often the way, Lakorath mused. The knowledge of impending death will banish all but the most potent spells.

  Spying another band of pirates mustering for a charge, Guyime swung his boot at a nearby bucket of pitch, upending its contents over the mangonel alongside and a good portion of the deck. Striking the sword to the iron bracing on the mangonel’s arm, he scattered sparks across the pitch, birthing an instant blaze. Smoke soon wreathed the ship from stern to bows, rendering the crew into vague shadows, easily dispatched thanks to Lakorath chiming a warning whenever one came within reach.

  Clashing steel and accompanying yells drew him to the aft deck, where he found Anselm heaving a wounded pirate over the rail. Despite having lost an eye and an arm, the fellow continued to flail and gnash at the knight even as he plummeted into the sea.

  “A wounded adversary, sire,” Anselm said as Guyime came to his side. The knight’s features showed the distress of one wrestling with an innately chivalric nature. “But he wouldn’t yield.”

  Guyime turned at the sound of something heavy thudding into the deck nearby, seeing the limp form of a pirate archer with one of Seeker’s arrows embedded in his chest. Casting around, Guyime found no more living enemies, although arrows still arced down from the Wandering Serpent’srigging. He huffed in satisfaction; the smoke served to conceal this victory, and he had a task to perform that would be best shielded from the eyes of Shavalla and her crew.

  “We don’t have long before this tub sinks,” he told Anselm, moving to crouch beside the archer’s corpse. “I would know more of our enemy.”

  A frown of deep reluctance tightened the knight’s face, hands twitching and making no move to draw the blade on his back.

  “I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t necessary,” Guyime said. He hunched lower as a bundle of flaming tackle fell from the fiery mess of ropes and sails above. “And it must be done now.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Anselm reached for the handle of the Necromancer’s Glaive, revealing the sickly green glow of the blade as he drew it free of the scabbard. “I’m not even sure how to command this thing,” he said, crouching next to the pirate’s corpse.

  “The sword knows,” Guyime assured him.

  Tentatively, Anselm lowered the cursed blade to the corpse’s chest, holding it in place whilst more blazing debris cascaded across the deck. “I don’t think it’s…” Anselm began, then stiffened as the glow of the Necromancer’s Glaive flared into a pale emerald flame. The light bathed the corpse, Guyime seeing it seep into the wounds marring the flesh. The body shuddered and a thick wad of red gore erupted from its mouth. Anselm hissed wordless pain through clenched teeth, Guyime discerning the effort required to hold the sword in place in the sweat beading his tensed features.

  “Ask it,” the knight grunted, the sword trembling in his grasp.

  Shifting closer, Guyime stared into the dead pirate’s eyes, seeing the same green luminescence that had afflicted the dire wights at Blackfyre Keep. They had been creatures of mindless animus, driven to feast upon the flesh of the living without thought or memory. This one was different, its bloodied lips squirming and jaw working as it attempted to speak.

  “You…torment me…” it said in a wet gurgle, red droplets spouting with every syllable. “Why?”

  “Your master,” Guyime replied. “The Black Reaver. Who is he?”

  “Master?” A shrill approximation of a laugh spattered more blood from the corpse’s mouth. “Slaver…I call him. Only now…in death…am I free of his chains.”

  “This.” Guyime tapped a finger to the branding on the pirate’s forehead. “This binds you?”

  “Yes… His will was mine…for so many years.”

  “His true name. What is it?”

  “I know…not. To me…he is only…slaver.”

  “Why does he hunger for the Spectral Isle? What does he hope to claim there?”

  “What all men…of boundless greed…hope for.” The glowing green eyes narrowed a fraction as the pirate focused his undead gaze upon Guyime. “I suspect…he wants…what you want, Ravager.”

  Guyime’s hand clamped onto the corpse’s skull. “How do you know that name?”

  “He knows it…” The pirate bared crimson teeth in a smile. “So much he knows… So much the Morningstar reveals…”

  “Morningstar? What is that?”

  The light in the corpse’s eyes flickered then, growing dim, its mouth slackening. “What is the Morningstar?” Guyime demanded, squeezing the pirate’s skull. “Is it a demon-cursed blade?”

  The green light guttered like a fading candle, then vanished, leaving Guyime to regard only the flaccid, empty visage of a recently slain man.

  “Apologies, sire,” Anselm said, raising the Necromancer’s Glaive from the body. “It says this man’s soul had lusted for death for many years. His will to die was stronger than the desire to cling to the illusion of life.”

  “We’ve learned enough.” Guyime got to his feet, the deck swaying beneath his feet as the ship began to list to port. “Come on.”

  All but two of the grappling ropes attaching the Serpent to the pirate vessel had been cut away, drawn tight as the sea began to swamp the deck of the smaller ship. Guyime and Anselm made short work of scaling the ropes to the Serpent’s prow, where Captain Shavalla greeted them with loud admiration.

  “Well, that’s a sight to carry to the grave!” she called out to her crew, provoking an appreciative cheer. “Wish I’d had you pair with us during the Silk Wars,” she added, clapping a hand to Guyime’s shoulder. As before, he noted that beneath the hearty facade, her gaze held the same careful scrutiny, especially in the way it lingered on both his and Anselm’s swords.

 

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